


Rape One shots

by anonangel (nocturnalsun)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, F/M, Gang Rape, Lemon, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Porn With Plot, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, goingtohell, triggering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-12-01 22:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20924306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnalsun/pseuds/anonangel
Summary: A collection of rape one shots. I take suggestions, but be warned I don't know much about fandoms, I mostly write oc/oc. I also usually write f/m, but I want to try m/m and f/f.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one when I had a prose-poetry phase.

There is a girl staring at me. I say girl because she is little and little and little all around, flat like my younger sister. I crack my neck and she flinches and looks away. Too little. Little girls are scared of tall guys and buff guys and guys that are both. Guys like me, on that long stretch of breezy summer break before my third year of college. Guys who you look at and know how far they’ve gotten - sprinted to first base, rushed into second, and went right for third, never failing to score a home run. 

There’s something about little girls. The way a rush of wind lifts their skirts just too high and you can tell their blood is pumping fast and hard and it makes your blood pump fast and hard and circulate where it shouldn’t, or the way they smile with shy, wet, pink, and inexperienced lips. Or maybe it’s the way they swing their hips patiently in line, behind their mother, the mother who stares at me and my new painful tattoo, and shit now my tattoo is hurting again. She glares like she knows my thoughts, like she knows I’ve caught a glimpse of where her kid’s stick thin thigh turns into ass.

I’m not the guy you’d let take your kids for ice cream or watch them for a minute because you have to run to the ATM, but it’s not because I’m a thirty year old pervert who tries to get his neighbors kids inside my house because my dog is sweet and sick and probably going to die soon so please just get inside my house, your mom said to wait here with me and she’ll be back soon. No, I’m the guy you’d warn your kids about because I smell like I don’t know how much beer is too much and I rev the engine of my old dusty Mustang that blasts classic rock and roll. I look like I don’t have boundaries and it’s true. I don’t look like I fuck kids but I do look like I’d fuck any pussy regardless. I’m not the guy you’d let smile at your naive daughter, but I do it anyways.

Because that’s just it. Naive and naive and naive, paints a picture of the little blonde teen with a pushup bra that pushes up nothing. What I hear, what I see, is that she’s waiting. Waiting until she blooms and fits and fills. But guys like me, guys like me can’t wait, we don’t wait. So yes, the girl is naive. She’s too naive too know that no one is going to wait. That if her bra did have something to work with, something to push up and something for her to be proud of, it wouldn’t change a thing. She’s still quiet and petite and naive. 

Yes, quiet as the mother places a pile of little white panties on the counter, cotton as pale as the girl’s face, but now her face is pink, and now it’s red like tomatoes in the salads I never eat. She mumbles something no one, not even her mom can hear.

“Pee. I said pee. Can I go pee, mommy?”

“Sure Izzy. But sweetheart, do me a favor and pick out a box of peanut M&Ms for mommy on your way back.”

Peanut M&Ms. Aisle four on the other side of the store. The girl is already gone, walking slowly because she knows her skirt is just how guys like it. She has to know. Right? So I’m nonchalantly cutting between people in line, getting to the end, and fast walking to the back of Target. I have a container of coconut water in my hand and I know it looks gay but it really fucking clears my head when I have a hangover and tomorrow is Friday and I can’t miss Becky’s party so I know how shitty Saturday morning will be. I’m thinking and thinking, growing nervous but I shouldn’t be.

No, I shouldn’t be because when I prop open the bathroom door there’s only one stall closed and I hear a tiny tinkle. I place my container on the floor in silence and I walk slowly because I like the way my shoes pound on the floor, clearing the dust around me. When my boots almost reach the stall she’s in, the tinkle stops.

The toilet paper rolls against cheap plastic and the toilet is flushing and I smirk because she can’t hear me coming. Because when she opens the door all she sees is my black tee shirt, and my new tattoo stretched out over the curves of the muscles of a soccer player, and she looks up and now that pretty face is petrified. I feel a tang of remorse, but her skirt is still short as I rip it off, as I stuff her tiny frame against the wall of the stall and shut the door. It doesn’t make much of a difference because it’s about 10:56, and no one is coming into this store before it closes in four minutes. Everyone is leaving, everyone is waiting, but her mom is still checking out her massive haul of clothes and food and panties. Her panties should be white but now they’re stained yellow. 

I can’t help but let out a laugh as I smash my lips against hers, and yes they are pink and wet and quivering. Because now I can’t stop, I can’t find the boundary because I want to see those panties stained red too. Red like my vision, red like my anger as she screams like a little girl, a fucking little girl.

“Shut up,” I order with my teeth gritted. She yelps as I yank down her panties. Aw look, now she’s crying. “Just keep your mouth shut and this’ll all go smoothly. Just be a good girl,” I whisper harshly into her ear. 

Now she’s squirming too, trying to hit me and honestly it’s funny. Because I’ve lifted weights since I was thirteen. God I really hope she’s no younger than thirteen. Yes, it’s funny because she’s thirteen and I’m a soccer player who moves fast down the field and fast right now because maybe her mom is starting to wonder.

Maybe she’s putting two and two together and fuck, maybe she knows I’m peeling the pushup bra off her daughter’s sweaty body and getting hard as I squeeze what’s there, the little pink nubs that have never been touched, the warm mounds that are just starting to form. Her skin is so warm, so soft, her tiny boobs tight like they’re stressed and need a massage. I give them what they need and she lets a noise escape the confines of her tiny mouth and she just looks confused.

But not as confused as when she hears me jerk on my zipper, as my jeans fall to my ankles and the little guy’s all perked up and ready to go. I lift her up so she hovers above me and she tries to seal her legs shut, muttering no no no no no. Tries, but I use one hand to keep them apart.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Her breathing picks up even more, which I didn’t think was possible. She starts to whimper. She lost. I won. “You look like a real woman. A real woman takes a dick, Izzy, you know what that is, right?” She’s stunned because I know her name, but she nods profusely, she wants to please me and I can appreciate that. “Well, a real woman takes one even when she thinks she’s not ready.” I get to decide when you’re ready, I want to say, but she gets the picture.

When I slam her down onto my dick it doesn’t work. She screams in agony and I realize I haven’t pulled her skinny skinny legs far enough apart. I want to enter her without lube, without a condom, without mercy. I pound, try to pound, her pussy again and again until slowly her hymen has withered away and allowed me inside. I knew she wanted it.

She is sobbing, God she is sobbing and there’s more blood than I thought there would be, trickling down her bony legs. I put a hand over her mouth because her screams are really throwing me off. I get deeper and deeper until I think I’ve torn her up. Of course I haven’t, but she sounds like I have. She sounds like she hates what I’m doing but hates that she doesn’t feel so much of the pain anymore, hates that now she’s releasing moans, little girl moans and she knows it’s making my dick harder. Because she can feel it pulsing through her.

All I can do is think of her mother, searching her wallet for a credit card. God I hope it’s declined. God I hope she has to dig into her purse and count out every single dollar because Izzy is such a good fuck and I need more time. Izzy is sniffling and I put my thumb on her pouty bottom lip. 

Poor Izzy, with sweet peachy skin layered in red rings on her arms that are bound to turn purple. She is soaked with blood and pee. She probably just wants to go home and watch her TV. But poor Izzy’s ass feels good in my hands, her popped cherry a sight to see on my dick. I know she is grateful. I know this when I squeeze my whole length into her and feel pleasure so strong I can’t hold myself back, and my hot cum spills inside of her. When I take out my throbbing dick, her knees go weak and she hits the floor. She’s standing there, crying big tears that run down my fingers as I wipe them away.

“Shh Izzy. You’re okay. We were just having a fun time.” I take a handful of her golden locks and bring her close to me. I give her a big slobbery kiss like I’m drunk, and I force my tongue inside her mouth. “You are such a good girl, Izzy. Your mommy would be proud. But this is between you and me, do you understand?” She gulps and then nods. I ruffle her hair.

I wipe my blood and cum-stained dick off with some toilet paper, then give Izzy her panties and skirt back. I shift my pants back up my legs and sigh. 

“Go now, Izzy. Your mommy is waiting.” She hurried out of the bathroom and out of my sight, her skirt sticking to her legs.

A minute later I was stumbling out of the bathroom with my coconut water, a phone to my ear. 

“Yeah babe, I’ll be there at nine. Don’t worry. Mhm, love you.” I made sure to project my voice as I came back into line. The mother was waiting at the counter, hands on her hips. I could see where Izzy got hers from. Or where she would get hers from.

I am fast to cover my tracks, fast to forget what happened in the bathroom. Because I’m fast like a soccer player, and I can always beat the defense.

“I… I couldn’t find the M&Ms. I’m sorry mommy, so sorry,” I overhear Izzy say once I’m back in line. 

“That’s okay sweetheart,” The mother chuckles in pity for her daughter who looks like she’s about to cry… again. “Mommy needs to lay off the candy, anyways.”

As they walk out, I’m whipping out my wallet to pay for my coconut water. Izzy has a subtle limp, and she trips and drops the bag she’s holding, which makes me wince. A box of birthday candles falls out. 

“Happy Thirteenth Birthday!” The package reads.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, prose-poetry phase.

The day had been quiet, my stomach filled with flurries of snow, waiting to settle, wanting to melt. By the time I’d gotten home the kids were back outside, biking and peddling and skating like there was no tomorrow, when in fact tomorrow is Saturday. Maybe it’s Saturday right now. A day of waking up late, when the sun is almost orange and the sky is almost clear of clouds and just a sea of blue so bright you think you can see yourself waving back. But when I look up right now all I see is ceiling.

A million images in my mind, the tall tree with long long branches that curved down like they had something to protect inside, the petals white and blinding and flowing in the wind. But now it was me on a scooter, my brother on a bike, my sister and our neighbors in their socks, trying not to cut their toes on the blistering hot street. Dogs barking in the distance, howling like the wind as it twirled and twisted and tousled our hair. Someone is pulling on my hair.

The night is dark and dizzying like any Saturday when we were younger, but instead of cartoons buzzing in the background it’s music, a bad taste in music I think, that is blasting throughout the house. House, a house. Whose house? Not mine. No, this bedroom isn’t mine, no because my bedroom has the ugly ugly wallpaper with flowers and trees and blue sky that my friends think is lame. Where are my friends? 

I feel like a child but I am a child. Does he feel like a child or does he feel big, a big man whose standing straight and tall and flashing something in my face, oh. Oh maybe it’s a camera or maybe, yes maybe it’s his phone. Wait. He’s snapping this moment, he’s freezing this moment of me. I’m frozen on this bed, stuck under a vast layer of ice that looks like it should break easily but it won’t. No, instead it comes crashing down with a slap to the face and many taunting laughs. What is so funny?

Is it funny that my head is spinning but laying still and scared? Is it really so funny that I don’t know where I am or when I am or how I am, just who I am? I don’t even know who I am, just the tiny little unimportant details that make up the memories of who I am, but who even am I?

I am the naked girl who doesn’t like her legs. Oh no please, please there is a zit there, please there are hairs there, please there is pink pink skin and I don’t know how to touch it so I never have. But they do know, they know how to touch my skin. Maybe they don’t know, but they do it anyways. Oh pretty please stop touching, please I am ugly. Please I am scared.

I am the girl they are holding down so hard that my heart falls to my wobbly legs and I want to throw up. Laughing, I am the girl they are laughing at. It is hilarious, she is drunk, she is crying.  
They tease me and poke me and stroke me and choke me. The one with his phone sneers and shoves it in my face, a distorted scene, but I can see it. I am the girl on there, I am the naked girl with young legs.

All of them look the same, with brown hair sticky with sweat and smiles that look too good when they laugh so cruelly. Smiles I’ve seen when I walk down those halls, hall after hall of white tiles. Smiles, tiles, they all look the same, white and bright and now the light is going off again from his phone.

Young, this girl is young, I am too young but it doesn’t matter. I am a girl and I can be held down by smiling boys with sweaty hair and sweaty football coats. One of them, one of them has a familiar name on the back. I am sobbing because he is in my biology class. Because Monday we will walk into biology and he will sit two rows to my left and remember the feel of my skin. 

Maybe, hopefully he is drunk too. Hopefully he won’t remember how he is pulling down my skirt that was too tight on my legs. He is pulling it down and pulling on his dark jeans that itch my skin. He is getting closer, close like when we both reached for the same bag of chips in the lunch line. Crunch crunch crunch, I begged him to take the chips but he made me. This is returning the favor, I suppose. 

Crunch crunch crunch, I beg him to stop but his zipper slides. The belt hits the ground with a thump and I jump. Please don’t touch my legs but he doesn’t care. They are any legs he’s ever touched, any drunk young skirtless legs. 

Senior year, it doesn’t matter what you do. Senior year is ending, no one will remember you. Please. Please leave bio class, please leave my life. Please leave my legs alone. I am begging you I am crying because of you, are you happy now? No, you need to break my legs, you need to snap them in half where they connect.

You need to lean over me and grab me where things haven’t grown yet, haven’t risen there, haven’t curved there. You need to grasp my legs, spread my wordless lips. Yes spread me apart, split me in half and save the rest of me for later. It hurts too much to explain.

They wouldn’t understand anyways, the ones who are whooping and hollering and getting in line. He can barely fit, barely fuse himself to me. In me. He takes shots like I’m a basketball hoop, he hopes that the stronger the throw the farther it will go. He scores a slam-dunk, a touch-down, a roar of laughter from boys who are young but I am younger.

Questions.

“Is she crying?”

“Holy shit, is she a virgin?”

“I told you this whore was worth it, didn’t I?”

A flash of white in my face. Antsy hands roaming up my chest, pressing and pinching. I am crying. I am. He’s groaning, yes he’s reveling. Maybe it’s my head, maybe its the sour remnants of alcohol on my drying tongue. But everything picks up its pace, the music, the thrusts. I have succumbed. I’m just riding my scooter, I’m ignoring the stubbed toes and cut ankles. 

Am I really worth it? My untouched skin bruised by hot fingers. I’m thinking. I think I remember, am remembering those halls, not so blinding anymore. Smiles, why did he smile at me? Did he already know? He knew I was new, he knew I watched him when he bit his thin lips and I wondered how those lips would feel on mine. He knew I liked to watch him move, throw a ball and lead the team to victory. The team is standing behind him now, ready to win.

Maybe when we learn about sex, maybe he will turn to me, hair and eyes and thoughts dark, maybe he will think of me. Taunt and tease me just by burning me with his eyes. Just thinking of tonight and the way my toes curl, the way I want to hurl. He’ll drink me in. He is drinking me in.

By the look on his face, maybe I am worth something. I am his pleasure, his pain, the contortion of his countenance and his final villainous act, a thrust much more meaningful than those in the last few minutes. The hole in me is permanently cemented by stickiness. 

I am, I am. I wish I never was. I wish I didn’t hear my breathing, heavier than the unzip of an excited junior. I wish my legs still connected, still loosely tied together, impenetrable.

I’m supposed to be impenetrable. I’m supposed to be saying no. Words can’t and won’t form, mumbles replace my anxious exclamations of “stop”. Too bad. Too painful but less of a surprise when round two begins.

Impenetrable girl with virgin legs. Pinned back arms with a broken heart. Lips bitten by the ones I only dreamed about, but this dream is a nightmare. A picture of a victim, a victim I play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that got depressing...


End file.
